Proximo's Time
by DinEn'Dae
Summary: There was once a time when Proximo ruled the ring of the Coliseum. He won his freedom and went on to give Maximus a chance but did you ever wonder how his story played out?


Disclaimer: I don't own Gladiator. I don't need to be sued. Please spare me!  
  
There was nothing but the battle. Feverish, invincible, towering above all of humanity, he walked into the ring. The crowd cheered and jeered alike. Roaring adrenaline filled him and survival was everything. The other man was a vast giant, taller, stronger; fiery hatred blazed in his eyes. Antonius Proximo roared in fury, a rage, animal instinct, possessing him. The giant rushed at him, sword and shield ready for attack; he dodged the giant. Growling fiercely, he ducked and cut the giant's legs deeply, managing to slash twice. Thick as pillars, they fell, crumbling, and he was on the sandy ground, screaming in pain. There was no mercy, no quarter, for this was life or death, no more and no less.  
  
The giant tried to hit and Proximo dodged in, fearless, unlike other men, he swept his sword across the other man's stomach, breaking armor with his shield at the same time and revealing the giant's entrails. The giant whimpered, crying and unmanly. Proximo dug his sword in and yanked, spilling intestines and blood across the sand, crowing triumphantly as the crowd cheered in hordes. The Coliseum was alive with the reek of death and destruction. The giant swiped feebly with his weapon and a long bloody scratch ran down Proximo's arm. He wrested the sword easily from the now, weak giant's flopping fist. Slowly, as a sculptor sculpting, he took the captured sword and cut down the giant's arm from afar, the place and proportion matching his own wound but this wound carefully deeper. The giant roared in agony, his first manly sound, and Proximo chopped at the giant randomly, crowing at his loss.  
  
The crowd was getting bored; they wanted it to end. The man was close to death but Proximo was careful not to give him the coup just yet. He would have to make the end good. He tossed both swords away and took up his shield, slamming it down powerfully on the giant's skull. The ring quieted for just a second and a sickening crack reverberated through the entire Coliseum. There was no sound for a long moment and then the crowd broke into a loud chorus of cheers. He had won again and they loved him. He left the ring, congratulated by his fellow gladiators and the owner even nodded harshly and slapped his back in congratulations. Proximo nodded back and raised the shield that had dealt the deathblow, saluting his master. Grinning tensely to himself, he went out to get water and some bread before he would have to battle again.  
  
The world saluted the great Proximo. He loved it now. When he was captured, he had refused to fight or do anything and then he had seen the reality of it. It was either fight or die and he had chosen to fight and live. He lived as a slave but he lived in fame, not that it was important to him. All he wanted was the past, a time when he was happy with his family and his friends. This was a time long past. They were dead and those who lived had abandoned him. He never looked back anymore. This was his life now. He was a gladiator and he fought to entertain and to live. Nobody cared for him and he did not care for anybody, not even himself. He was completely numb and it did not matter to him at all.  
  
The wine spilled down his chin and stained his shirt a bloody grape red. He berated himself. He never thought about any of this and he was doing it now. Why? He turned around abruptly as he heard a sound behind him. Drawing his sword without thinking about it, he looked into his stalker's eyes and saw a beautiful woman smiling back at him, slightly uncertainly.  
  
"Would this be the great Proximo?" she asked sweetly. His answer was gruff and unfeeling.  
  
"Aye." She spoke again after his single word.  
  
"We cheer for you, sir. We will meet again hence." Playfully, flirtatiously, she leaned forward and kissed him lightly on the cheek and then rushed out to join her women. Proximo looked on in silence, his mind being bent by the minute. The woman was attractive he had to admit. He visualized her round face, framed in silky golden strands of hair and her shapely, womanly figure. She had worn a golden dress with a silver veil that fell across her elbows. Her eyes were dark, a deep, obsidian black and they fascinated him, haunted him. He tore his thoughts away from the woman as they announced his name in the arena. The regulators called to him harshly and he went out, drawing his sword and grabbing a shield on the way.  
  
The opponent was the same size as he was. He was the same height and build but he looked thin and frail, as if he couldn't handle the pressure of fighting. Proximo wondered why this man was on the field, fighting him, the greatest in the rink. They sounded the horns and the two men rushed for each other. Proximo swung aside at the last minute and caught the man across his girth, breaking his armor. The man turned and Proximo used the same maneuver, cutting into the man's gut. His insides flew out as he ran but the man had a will, though they would never keep him alive after such a grievous injury, he fought. Proximo ran at him also and the man did not have the sense to move out of the way of Proximo's sword. He easily lopped off the man's head and the crowd cheered for him.  
  
This man had been easy. The giant had been harder than this though most of his opponents were of no comparison to him, once in a while he got a good opponent. He knew that he entertained the crowd because otherwise, they would have killed him long ago. He raised his arms to salute his victory and turned to go back inside. The woman was in the bleachers ahead of him, cheering with vigor, looking at him with an intensity that he could not bear. He tore his eyes from her and ran into the coolness of the rooms in the Coliseum. He was again greeted with a raucous of congratulations from his fellow gladiators, but he did not hear much of it. The fever was still in him and he felt like basking in it, the greatness of the killing, of the battle. 


End file.
